A Devious Set Up
by KBates
Summary: What happens when 34-year-old Sarah's half senile, half drunk, definitely devious grandmother decides to arrange her 'date' [Jane Austen style] to a very sharp featured male creature, with far more canines than necessary? Sharp dialogue and some…risqué situations. And sex. Warning - a tiny bit of exhibitionism.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Labyrinth and associated characters aren't mine._

AN—hello, all it's been a while. Must practice a bit before delving into writing something complicated…say…a Dark Court chapter (which is coming up, I swears it by the preciousssssssssssssss). Plus, had to practice writing in first person for Dark Court…hence, this story is in first person.

 **A Devious Set Up** : What happens when 34-year-old Sarah's half senile, half drunk, definitely devious grandmother decides to arrange her 'date' [Jane Austen style] to a very sharp featured male creature, with far more canines than necessary? Sharp dialogue and some…risqué situations.

* * *

 **A Mother's Day Wish, AKA Blackmail**

Linda Levin, or as I call her 'mommie dearest' – okay, I only call her that when I want to annoy her – laughs, while I groan.

This isn't _fair_!

They're _totally_ ganging up on me, but then again, it's nothing out of the ordinary when we're visiting Mimi. Otherwise known as Marcia Levin – matriarch of the Levin family, of which I happen to be the last remaining descendant, even though my last name is technically Williams.

"Give it a break, Mimi—I'm not letting mom set me up on a date," I say, cringing when I hear my voice.

 _Jesus – whiny much Williams? Not cool for a 34-year-old—not cool_.

But I hold my ground. "You know what happened the last time? She set me up with this douche bag reporter with a martyr complex—he had an ego the size of Alaska."

That part's true. You know the type. 'I'm so amazing. Why don't you fall at my feet?' Very reminiscent of a certain childhood villain of mine, but I must digress.

Mommie dearest rolls her eyes heavenward—typical reaction when dealing with, what _she_ calls, my tendency to over dramatize. She'd tried pushing me towards acting ever since I was a child. Never worked. _Well_ …save for a very short lived phase during junior high—the death of that fledging career could be accredited to the same childhood villain.

I can still recall his exact image. The evil smirk—cool amusement—sharp features—tight, _tight_ pants.

My mother huffs and puffs, showing her displeasure. "Stop whining Sarah, the man looks like Adonis—he traipses around _every_ war zone in the world—his martyr complex is totally understandable. And from what _I've_ heard, he has something _else_ that's the size of Alaska. Sometimes, darling, you really shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth…especially if it's a gift horse with a very… _talented_ …mouth."

Oh. Dear. God. _Ew_.

"Mother! _Gross_!"

"Oh, Sarah, don't be such a prude," Mimi chimes in, grinning mischievously as she takes in my scandalized expression. "I thought you young women were supposedly _liberated_. I certainly was…and _that_ was more than 50 years ago."

 _Ugh. Curse them both. Why are Levin women so persistent?_

"I _am_ liberated, Mimi—that doesn't mean I want to exchange sex details with my mother."

"Oh _dear_ , are you blushing? I blame your father's genes for this level of…prudeness," Mimi chuckles her trademark devious chuckle, "…if that's even a word."

It isn't, but I don't tell her that—it'll just give her a reason to call me little-miss-know-it-all.

She smiles and hands me a tumbler full of…I have no idea. Some drink she's made. I think it's a healthy dose of Hendricks mixed with soda, garnished with a cucumber slice. How British—ironic, because she isn't.

My eyebrows shoot up. "It's 11 in the morning!"

Mimi gives me a rather disappointed look and sighs deeply. "There you go again with your prudishness— _that's_ the right word, isn't it?" She asks, refusing to withdraw the proffered drink. "It's mother's day brunch, you're _allowed_ to drink."

"I think you're confusing mother's day with St. Patrick's Day," I grumble—relenting, I take a sip.

 _Good fucking God._

I cough violently as the damn thing burns a trail down my throat.

"What the _fuck_ , Mimi," I say, in between a coughing fit, "—are you trying to send me into an alcohol induced coma?"

"Don't start _again_ , Sarah," my mother steps into the conversation with a laugh, having had a few glasses of Mimi's concoction herself. " _Must_ you be dramatic about everything? Enjoy a day with your mother and grandmother without grumbling like the crotchety 80-year-old that you are at heart."

Haha—funny joke. Mom's been comparing me to the elderly ever since I turned 16—when I lost my penchant for fantasy and acting, all at once.

…and _that_ , instinctively reminds me of another deviously sinister chuckle. A rich, dark, sinful chuckle that made my stomach flip.

 _Stop it, Williams!_

Almost 20 years down the line and I'm still impacted by memories of the bastard. One of my therapists tells me I must have developed a fetish of sorts. So what? A fetish is supposed to be… _unique_ …isn't it? Mine happens to be a very sexual, imaginary villain with Tina Turner's hair.

"Fine," I say through gritted teeth—taking in a huge sip of the extra strong drink—maybe it'll help me forget those sinful pants. "I drink enough at work events, I'd thought I could relax today. But _sure_ —guilt me into drinking, unlike most other mothers in the world!"

"Oh, pshaw darling," mom responds with a wave of her elegant hand. "I'm one of a kind—so's your Mimi. Both of us are _damned surprised_ at how seriously _boring_ you've turned out to be."

"That is _so_ unfair," I retort, my patience wearing thin. I hate it when they gang up on me—even if it is in good humor. All part of my crotchety, 80-year-old avatar, or so my mother says.

"I wish I could live the life of a peace loving socialite like Mimi, or a Hollywood diva like you—but I _need_ to live in reality. I don't have the luxury of living my life one party at a time."

Mom grins wide, completely undeterred— _dammit_! "You mean one rock star at a time."

Mimi laughs while I hold my hands to my ears. "Leave me out of your sex life, mom—discuss your… _antics_ …with Jeremy….whatever weird thing you guys have going on."

"Antics? _Antics_? You're 34, darling—you can say sex or sex gymnastics or epic, sex decathlon or—"

"Okay, I get it," I interrupt, my face turning a shade of cherry red. I can't help it if I'm not as fucking liberated as my actress mother, or my 'love and peace' loving grandmother.

"What Jeremy and I have, is something… _unique_ ," mom explains, deliberately oblivious to my growing discomfort. "Now if you'd just let me set you up with this _gorgeous_ producer—"

"No," I cut in before she can continue, keeping my arms crossed assertively. "I don't want to date _anyone_ who stands in _front_ of a camera, _behind_ a camera, or in a board room, funding a project that _involves_ a camera."

 _And I'm not budging on that!_

My mother relents. Her brows furrow just a little—as much as her extensive Botox injections will allow. "Well…that severely limits my options."

"Yes, it does!" I exclaim, downing Mimi's horrendous drink. "Can we move on to something else, please? Mimi, how's your bridge group doing at the club?"

Mimi snorts. "Damned if I know—I haven't played in months."

"What? I thought you enjoyed going to the club on Sundays."

"Meh," she says, completely disinterested. "Just because I'm old, doesn't mean I have to bore myself to death." Just as she says this, a mischievous gleam lights up my grandmother's jade eyes—ones she'd passed on to me.

Alarm bells go off in my head. _Uh-oh. She's up to something—be wary Williams. The woman may be 88, but she's damn tricky._

Mimi, for her part, tries looking like a sweet old lady.

 _As if that'll fool me!_

"What happened to that economist you were dating, Sarah? I never found his company _particularly engaging_ , but there were times when I believed he would be the one…"

Jesus…not _him_ again.

"He wasn't an economist, Mimi—there's no such profession. He taught economics at Yale…and well…" my voice drifts off as I ponder my former relationship.

Said 'economist' came with two settings—stoic and boring, and aggravatingly pompous. Terrible combination, but the sex had been good enough, _and_ he knew all the right restaurants to go to. He had a sense of arrogance that drew me towards him.

Truth is, we barely spent any time together. It ended eventually, after we concluded that our 'relationship' would only be realized two weekends every month. And even then, most of that was sex. There's no point in entangling oneself in the emotional drama of a relationship for sex. You can get _that_ without the relationship part.

"He's not the point, my dear," Mimi says innocently, once again, putting on the sweet old lady act. Her eyes are suddenly downcast, and she looks a little teary. "But the fact remains, that I am getting old, Sarah—who knows if I'll be around next mother's day."

I groan—so _that's_ her power play. "Mimi—do you really think I'm that easily manipulated?"

Mimi smiles. "If you won't allow your mother to set you up, give your old Mimi a chance…what've you got to lose?"

 _My fucking sanity?!_

" _Mimi_ ," I say with a sigh. "I don't have time to date."

Mom laughs as she pours herself another drink. "Are you really going to deny the dying wish of your 88-year-old grandmother…on mother's day?"

 _Of all the diabolical bullshit._

But _dammit_! It works. Mimi has her fair share of health issues—she shouldn't even be drinking.

"One date—and it'll have to be after the Dobson case."

Mom scrunches her nose in disgust—very 'mommie dearest' indeed. "Sarah darling, I have no idea why you'd want to place your life on hold and get your kicks with the mundane reality of supply chain management."

 _Supply chain management! Of all the fucking insults!_

"For the love of—" I exclaim exasperatedly, going to give her a piece of my mind…when I notice the twinkle in her brown eyes. She's riling me up on purpose.

I've been a business transformations consultant for six years, and my mother knows it's nothing like being stuck at some midlevel, SCM job. She just can't seem to comprehend why I'd let go of the chance of being adored at Hollywood, and choose the life I have. My therapist has a few ideas—none of which make sense to her.

"I work at _decreasing_ supply chain management, mom—not wallowing _in_ it."

"That sounds even worse," mom says with a shudder. "Do you really want to be the cause of some poor sap in Alabama losing his job? All that does is make him mad…and vote for the cause of universal stupidity."

I roll my eyes. "Manufacturing's far cheaper outsourced—the poor sap in Alabama should opt to develop more relevant skills. I've been working my ass off on a transformations strategy for Dobson, so yeah, the _date_ will have to _wait_." I wince as the last word comes out rhyming.

"Sure, sure," Mimi interrupts our heated discussion—all smiles now that I'd agreed. "Whenever you want, Sarah. When do you wrap up this very important project of yours?"

"Next Tuesday."

Mimi's smile turns just a tad bit evil. Not 'oh my God, my grandmother's possessed by the devil' evil, but 'watch your step, Sarah, she's up to something' kind of evil.

"I'll set one up for Friday then."

 _Um_.

 _What the fuck?!_

"What do you mean set one up? _Where_?" I ask, bewildered.

"Oh…you _know_ …" she says, waving off my concern.

"No, I _don't_ know." I cross my arms, and glare at her…stare, more like. She is 88—can't stay mad at her too long. And by the look on her face, she knows it.

"I want you to meet this fellow without any distractions—so I figured you could come over to dinner here."

My jaw drops open.

 _Fellow_?! Did she just say ' _fellow'_? And _then_ insinuate that the ' _date'_ take place at her house?

"Drinking Hendricks doesn't make you British, Mimi—since when do you use the word fellow?" _Big picture, Williams—big picture!_ "You want to set up a date at your house? That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard you say."

Mimi only smiles innocently. "I thought we could do an old fashioned thing and make it very Jane Austen—it'll be charming. Without chaperones, of course. I'll visit your mother for the weekend, so you have the entire house to yourselves…should you need it."

 _Ew—did my grandmother just make a sex reference?_

"No."

"Sarah—don't be so stubborn. I'll get dinner properly catered and everything—I'll even hire some cleaning staff."

"Let me rephrase myself. _Fuck_ , no."

"Dying mother's day wish from your 88-year-old, Parkinson's afflicted grandmother."

Argh. _So_. Not. Fair.

"Fine." I mumble.

The somewhat evil smile is back on my grandmother's face. "Be here by 8—I know you city people don't have dinner till 10, but this is Long Island. You won't get a cleaning person after 9."

 _Fuckity, fuck._

 _The hell had I agreed to?_

* * *

 **A Conference Table Used Thoroughly Well**

… _(The Dobson meeting)…_

 _Alright, Williams—time to kill it! Carpe diem and all that._

I give myself a pep talk before standing up and addressing the small group of people in the conference room. One of my presentation techniques is to never look directly at the faces of most of the attendants. I keep my gaze steady on Caroline Scott—as head of the Dobson board, she has ultimate sway on any pending decisions.

As expected, none of the Dobson family is present. Figures. They're third generation owners—probably don't care much about the company, as long as they're paid dividends.

"Shall we start?" I ask rhetorically—eyes focused on Caroline.

She nods curtly—a telltale scowl on her otherwise stoic face. From what I gathered over previous meetings, she is against any drastic changes. Must have taken a major vote for them to seek a proposal with a firm like mine.

 _Time to make your kill, Williams—go for it._

Opening up a page with mostly numbers, I allow the information to skin in for a few moments before speaking.

"I don't believe in long winded presentations," I say—voice steady and firm. "The numbers speak for themselves. The industry has changed—the numbers don't add up. For Dobson to continue being a key player in the market, major innovation needs to take place, and costs need to be cut."

Caroline Scott doesn't seem impressed as she stares me down with slate gray eyes. "I presume you're extending a solution? We paid a king's ransom to your firm for this project, Ms. Williams—you need to give me more than two key words."

 _Burn_.

I smile demurely. What comes next is an act—one I'm used to. I'm experienced enough to realize that hostility can only be countered with infinite politeness. I move on to the next slide, ignoring the few audible gasps that echo across the room.

"This is my proposal," I say slowly—letting them take in the numbers. "Outsource two units, and close the rest, automate your back end." The rest consists of four manufacturing plants and a back end office that is filled with a host of unnecessary administrative and accounting staff. "This will raise your bottom line by a significant margin."

Caroline's face turns icy. "Thank you, Ms. Williams…"

"You're very welcome," I reply, the smile glued to my face—I sense a 'but' coming up very soon. "Would you like me to clear up any details?"

"As I've said before, outsourcing is not an option we take lightly."

I nod and put on a sympathetic expression—at least, I _hope_ I do. Directly contradicting a client is a no-no. The 'agreeing but actually disagreeing' technique works wonders instead.

"Nor _should_ you. I understand the hardships and complications, not to mention the ethical dilemma that comes with outsourcing, or shutting down a plant…" I pause—my face hardens just a tad. "…But without a major increase in net revenue, Dobson Furnaces will go bankrupt. I'm sure shareholders don't want that."

I hear a murmur of agreement.

"Manufacturing units aside, why should we automate the backend office? That's hardly a major expense, and it's been around for more than 70 years."

 _Aha—the bitch is changing tactics!_

… _and so can I._

"I understand your perspective—but, at some point, you're going to have to come to terms with the fact that _that_ particular unit isn't going anywhere. You can replace the entire backend office of a hundred and fifty people, with two qualified individuals and modern technology. Best thing to do with your backend office, is rip it off like a Band-Aid."

A raised brow. "Band-Aid?"

 _Ugh—bad word choice. Use human terms when describing people!_

"We've done this with many companies in the past—as you know, you won't find a consulting firm that's better at handling close downs."

That's true enough—our ground team is pretty big on compassion. We don't just fly into somewheresville Indiana and tell 500 people they're fired—we have processes in place that makes their… _transition in life_ …easier.

Caroline doesn't back down. "But why change something that's working well enough? Why disrupt a hundred and fifty lives?"

 _Oooh_ — _I have a solid argument for this_.

"The world changes every day, Caroline—if you're not on top, you're wiped out. We're all old enough here to remember Blockbuster and Blackberry—where are those companies now?"

I pause and look around the room—no one answers.

"What about Netflix? Started out by mailing DVDs—look at where they are now. Constant change and willingness to embrace technology and use it to one's advantage, is _key_ to thriving in _any_ industry. You need people who're willing to work harder every day—not mom and pop type people who clock in 9 to 5 and take hour long lunches. One of Netflix's policies is that they only keep star employees who excel at what they're doing—the ones who work _adequately_ are let go with a decent severance package. The backend office is deadweight—cut it off, or let it drag you down."

I allow that to sink in—grinning to myself. I know I have everyone rapt, including the tenacious Ms. Scott. Businesses don't want to be Blockbuster or Blackberry—they want to be Netflix.

"Moving on," I say, going to the next slide. "These are the exact numbers. I know it's not going to be easy to digest, but based on our calculations, your staff numbers will decrease by 70%."

I hear a loud screech as Caroline's chair drags across the floor when she stands abruptly—a clear indication that she's heard enough. Smiling faintly, I hold my ground and stare back.

"70%...that's a _large_ proportion of our task force, Ms. Williams. Give us some time to discuss this internally. We'll get back to you by the end of the week."

"Of course," I pretend to acquiesce. I know she's trying to negotiate—but our rules are quite stringent on that.

 _No negotiations._

 _Still_ —I keep my mouth shut—contradicting her now would be of no use to me. She'd come around… _eventually_. Dobson has nowhere else to go.

I shake hands with the board members as they leave the conference room. When the last person leaves, I turn out the lights, and reach for my handbag…

…and _that's_ when I feel it…

 _Heat…_

… _slow, prickly heat…_

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I feel a hum of energy vibrate against my skin…and slide down my figure, lingering for just a few moments.

"Hello?" I call out—wondering if one of the Dobson team stayed behind to address an issue. "Anyone there?"

…and _that's_ when I hear his voice…

"Hello _Sa_ -rah."

 _Heat_ …

I shiver, even though the temperature rises a few degrees—my breathing quickens. His voice is a paradox—sharp and smooth. Hard and soft. Intense, yet mocking.

 _Fuck_.

 _This is bad, Williams…really bad._

A dark chuckle reverberates around the room as I turn to see the Goblin King sitting at the other end. One long, booted leg propped up on the table. Head tilted back, resting on a gloved fist. Wisps of silvery gold strands sit atop his head like an angelic halo…but the cruel amusement in his strange eyes makes him look anything but angelic.

I open my mouth to say something, but my voice dies in my throat.

A million questions run through my mind. _Is it him? Really him? After all these years? What the fuck could he want? I hadn't accidently wished Caroline Scott away—had I?_

He smiles slowly, his feral teeth in full display as he drinks in my shock. There's a mocking lilt to his tone when he speaks. "That was a… _riveting_ performance."

"Thank you for noticing," I reply—grateful that my voice comes out strong.

He inclines his kingly head ever so slightly. "I aim to please."

Clutching my bag, I take a step back—his smile makes me wary. It's those damned predatory teeth.

"If that's all…" I say, turning around. Trembling slightly, I force one foot in front of the other.

 _Get out—get out—get out._

… _turn back before it's too late…_

He laughs coldly—the menacing sound makes me stop in my tracks.

"You leave without saying hello…how _cruel_ , precious thing."

Whirling around, I give him a hard look. "What—" I stop. That's not what I want to ask. "How—" I stop again. "Why are you even here?" I ask, finally saying my right words.

"Why am I _even_ here…" he repeats, a sing-song quality to his deep voice "…because I wanted to see you."

My mouth falls open—hadn't expected _that_. "Why? Have a business that needs to be transformed?"

He laughs again—more amused and less threatening this time. My skin tingles in anticipation—I have no idea of what.

"In a manner of speaking," he replies with detached amusement, voice as smooth as velvet. "I would very much like the option of simply _letting go_ of half my castle staff…and _all_ of the Goblin City. But alas…some things aren't possible."

"Right. Good to know," I say with fake cheer, backing away slowly. "Now that this has been sufficiently awkward enough, I'm going to—"

He sits up straight—the booted leg remains propped on the table, but his eyes narrow. "We have some unfinished business, _Sarah dearest_ ," he lilts.

I have no idea how he manages to sound mocking yet menacing at the same time. The air around me crackles with energy and tension—his magic, perhaps.

I remain glued to the spot, my eyes widen in genuine surprise. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A slow, sharp toothed grin. "Perhaps you should come closer and demand an explanation."

Laughing nervously, I shake my head. "I'm not a frightened child anymore, Goblin King, you'll have to do better than—"

My voice dies when I hear murmured voices outside. _Dammit_. I'd forgotten that I was still at work. Although it's late in the night, I know there are plenty of people who're still working. I keep my eyes glued to the door until I hear the voices fade away.

Rich, throaty laughter. " _Not_ a frightened child, you say..." His cold gaze runs up my body until he reaches my eyes. "How… _disappointing_."

Oh. _Fuck_ him.

Willing myself not to tremble, I make my way to the end of the table and stand next to him. I'm close enough that he has to look up at me. _Good_.

"I take my work very seriously, Goblin King—what the fuck do you want?"

"What I want is irrelevant," he says, the derisive lilt back in his voice. "Sit down, why don't you?"

I glare at him—the bastard and his riddles.

"You haven't changed much, have you?" I say derisively, choosing to sit on the table instead of the chair next to him—that he'll have to look up at me, gives me a thrill. "How… _disappointing_."

Throwing his head back, he laughs. "You precious, _precious_ thing," he mock-admonishes, like one would a child, "…I come here to _give_ you so much, and you treat me so poorly. What a wicked… _woman_ …you've become." He says the word woman like it means something else entirely—his gaze turns predatory.

 _Heat._

…and _that's_ when I feel it—consuming lust—a sudden rush of desire so strong, I gasp at the impact. My body tingles with anticipation, hyperaware of his presence. A low, aching pulse settles between my legs.

I swallow before speaking—hoping my voice turns out normal. "I don't want anything from you."

A laconic brow. "So sure," he laments sardonically. "You may think you've changed, _Sarah dearest_ , yet we remain the same. A generous king and an ungrateful mortal."

 _What a freaking asshole._

"Fuck you Jareth," I say, angry enough that I use his actual name, something I've never allowed myself to say aloud. "Stop fucking with me at work. You should leave—there's _nothing_ I want from you."

There's pin drop silence for a few, excruciating seconds.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_. I can't afford to make some powerful, magic thing mad—what if he creates a scene at work?

Just as I'm about to apologize for my outburst, I hear a rustle of wind. His movements are too quick for my eyes to follow—in a fraction of a second, he disappears from his seated position and somehow stands, towering over me. His arms are on either side of my body, effectively caging me to the conference table.

 _Fuck, he's close._ He's close enough now that I can _feel_ him _._ Close enough that I can see his eerie eyes glitter ominously.

Still—I refuse to be intimidated. "What the fuck is your problem?!"

"I have many _Sarah dearest_ ," he replies—voice tinged with cruel amusement, as if he's enjoying toying with me. "One of which happens to be you." With that, he comes closer, settling himself between my knees.

The pulsing between my legs intensifies, rendering me speechless for a few moments.

 _Get a hold of yourself, you idiot—you're at work!_

"What do you want from me?" My voice comes out shaky—my breaths come out in gasps as my heart thunders in my chest.

A malicious laugh. "Shall I _show_ you, precious?"

That's all he says before his gloved hands push my legs apart, and he pulls me towards him. My skirt rides up my legs as he thrusts his hips against mine. I feel him hot and hard…ready, and I moan.

"Sarah," he murmurs into my ear, his lips hovering dangerously close to the sensitive skin of my neck. "The question isn't what I want from you, precious thing—it's all the things I want to do to you."

 _Holy. Fucking. Shit._

Is this really happening? The embodiment of sex—the product of my nightmares and sexual fantasies—wants to do filthy things to me? Did I just win the lottery—or did I descend into hell?

A wolfish glint lights his eyes. "As I stated previously, I'm going to give you everything, precious…and you're going to _take_ it all."

His voice is a mélange of lust and violence—the combination only heightens my desire. The images that run through my mind would make a porn star blush.

 _Snap out of it, Williams! You're at work—anyone can walk in._

"Stop," I say weakly. "I can't do this at work."

" _Oh_?" He taunts, one eyebrow raised in question. "You can't?" His hands run up my thighs, massaging the insides—the texture of his gloves tickles my sensitive skin. Pushing my legs further apart, his fingers inch up my legs.

My breath comes out in shallow pants. "This is what you want…to fuck me at my work place?" I ask in between breaths. It'd be true literally _and_ figuratively.

His lips glide against the column of my neck, before returning to my ear. The deep rumble of his voice makes me shiver when he speaks. "I want to fuck you anywhere and everywhere _precious thing_. But not tonight. Lean back on your elbows."

My eyebrows shoot up. "I'm not doing this at work. Are you insane?"

He flashes his canines in a ruthless smile—eyes gleaming with dark promise. "Indeed, precious thing. Unfortunately for you, I am very, _very_ insane." With that he strokes the heated flesh of my center through my panties.

"Jareth," I whimper, voice hazy with lust. "At least lock—" I stop speaking when he pushes my panties aside and enters me with a leather clad finger. " _Fuck_."

A dark chuckle. "Do you dare accept my… _generosity_ …precious thing?" Another slim finger enters me and he fucks me slowly, as if he has all the time in the world—my clit pulses wildly begging to be touched. Which, of course, he doesn't.

This is seriously fucking wrong. The Goblin King is finger fucking me in a conference room at work.

"Please," I say, fighting back a moan, "lock the door."

A flash of cruelty flickers in his eyes. "Take off your skirt and panties." His fingers continue their slow torture as he speaks.

"Someone can walk in," I plead.

He leans into me. "Then it's best you hurry….if you dare. Do you dare, _Sarah dearest_?"

I don't know whether it's the challenge in his voice, or the blaze of lust he's ignited in my core—but I do as he says. My hands tremble as I pull down the flimsy fabric of my panties.

Still—I hold my panties in my hand and look at him defiantly. "I _dare_ , Goblin King."

"I was hoping you would," he replies, taking the panties. Instead of throwing it away or keeping it, he brings the fabric close. A gloved finger, one that had been inside me only a few seconds ago, tugs at my lower lip. "How about now?"

 _Oh fuck. He wants me to-?_

"Open your mouth for me, _Sarah dearest_ …if you dare."

The cold humor in his voice should have made me push him away…but I don't. Instead, I do as he says—unable to tear my eyes away from his heated gaze.

He circles the sensitive skin around my entrance with his fingers, but takes his time before penetrating me. A low moan escapes my throat when he finally slips a finger inside, chuckling as I rock into his touch. I know I should lock the fucking door—but I am too far gone.

 _Consumed_.

"Something you want?" He teases, voice rough with desire—pale eyes uncharacteristically dark with lust and something else.

I let out a muffled response—he takes pity on me and takes my panties out of my mouth so I can speak.

"Stop teasing me and fuck me, Jareth," I reply.

A short, cruel laugh. "Very forward of you. How…refreshing." His thumb presses the skin just above my clit and I gasp at the rough caress.

"I'm 34, Goblin King—not a child you can intimidate. If you're going to disrupt my life at my workplace, you better make it worth my while. Fuck me, _if you dare_." I throw his words back at him biting back moans as his caresses become rougher with every word I speak. But that only makes me hotter.

"No."

 _Wait, what? No?_

He holds my gaze for the longest time. His lips twist cruelly when I flinch as he pinches my throbbing clit. "I shall not fuck you tonight, precious." With those words, he shoves my panties back in my mouth and holds my legs apart forcefully—his movements far from gentle.

He kneels down, his eyes never leaving mine as he scorches me with his gaze. "How you beg me with your cruel eyes, _Sarah dearest_ ….it drives me to madness."

I try screaming out a muffled reply, but my eyes roll back when I feel his mouth on me. He pumps two fingers in and out in languid, measured strokes while his tongue encircles my clit.

 _Oh fuck._

He keeps his movements slow and steady as the pressure builds deep within me—he doesn't stop until he pushes me over the edge ruthlessly. Again…and again…and again…until the boundaries of pain and pleasure blur…until tears burn my eyes. Until I realize what's happening between us has more to do with humiliation than desire.

When he finally stops, my body is completely spent—I raise a shaky hand to ungag myself, but I find myself clothed, panties intact, in a flash of a second.

My face burns when I look at him—the bastard seems calm and collected, as if the experience did nothing for him.

Swallowing a shaky breath, I step off the table. "I suppose that was revenge."

"In a manner of speaking," he replies with cool detachment.

I grit my teeth. "Get out."

A malicious laugh. "Come now, precious thing. That's no way to speak to someone who spent so much time and effort pleasuring you."

"Fuck you." Terrible come back, but in my defense, I'm too angry to come up with a better one.

In a matter of seconds, his demeanor shifts from coldly malicious to predatory. His dual eyes gleam with promise. "Patience, precious thing."

That's all he says before disappearing into thin air—leaving me alone in the darkened conference room.

* * *

 **A Spa Day Meant for Plotting**

"This is what I get for believing you," I complain to my mother—we're at a super high end spa—one she lives in while she's in NY. She'd gotten me here under the lieu of an 'emergency.' Should have known it wasn't.

"Relax, Sarah dear," Mimi says—the foils on her head making her look ridiculous. She'd gone white early on in her life, and hadn't really believed in coloring her hair. She's really into the natural look—all the more hilarious that her daughter is the exact opposite.

"I feel ridiculous," I grumble—and I do. I have four attendants working on me simultaneously, two on my hands and two on my feet. I know people think spas are meant for relaxation, but I hate sitting down and waiting for someone to be done filing my nails. I find the wait excruciatingly boring.

"About Friday night—be on time, Sarah," Mimi says, oblivious to my irritation.

I groan—I'd forgotten about that. "I don't think that's a good idea," I mumble.

"Why not?" My mother asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Something's up—what is it?"

Rolling my eyes, I decide to respond with the truth. Partial truth, anyway. "I ran into someone from my past at work…and things got complicated."

My mother squeals like a 15-year-old who just got asked to prom. "You had sex didn't you? Please tell me you had hot monkey sex last night—that's why you're less uptight today!"

 _Oh my God. Somebody shoot me._

" _Mother_!"

Thankfully, it seems as if the spa attendants have been trained to appear oblivious to ongoing conversations between clients. They don't bat an eye and stick to filing my nails.

"Going by your mortification, the hot monkey sex took place at work," Mimi joins in.

" _Mimi_!"

My mother pays no attention to my glares. "So will you bring him to dinner tonight?"

 _This isn't happening!_

"Mom, let it go," I say with a sigh. "He's not the type. I don't even know what he wants." I frown as contemplate Jareth's game. While he'd left me utterly spent, he'd also left me aching for him. The bastard knew it, too.

 _Fight back, Williams. Beat him at his own game._

"Sarah darling," my mother asks, a touch concerned. "Why are you grinning like a maniac?"

"I'm going to see how far I can push him," I say gleefully—completely oblivious to the fact that neither my grandmother nor my mother ask who I'm talking about.

Part two comping up. Already written, needs some editing. What is Jareth up to? What's Sarah up to?

* * *

 **AN** : bear with me peeps—work is killing me. But I'm loving it.

Anyone have whimsical parents? My parents (who live in la la land) just went on a trip to London, Paris, and Edinburgh—and they were all 'come join us' and I was all 'dudes, my work is nuts right now' and they were all 'but one must balance life and work blah blah' and I was all 'reality, people, reality.'

I've been working so much, I focused a ton on Sarah's work place in this fic, haha. Something I find hilarious in most billionaire romances or NA fiction in general is the stupidity with which people describe 'businesses.' The billionaires have these multi-billion 'businesses' – no description on how they work b/c they're fucking insecure moronic women 24 hours a day – and they're all 'ruthless businessmen' but also 'sooooooo sympathetic' that they employ some mom and pop type people who would be totally useless in any industry.

It's like that one scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere's character acquires another company, but he works with the old guy and fires no one and is all goody goody because the hooker with a heart of gold made him a better man. What a joke. That scene is even less believable than the shopping spree scene. [But I still love that movie, go figure].

Also, Sarah's mother—I loved turning her into this wild, whimsical actress, while Sarah remains staunchly practical. Imagine someone working at McKinsey's with a Hollywood parent? It'd be two worlds colliding.

The mani/pedis bit—haha that's my own take on manicures and pedicures. I get them once or twice every month and it drives me crazy sitting in that chair. I'm all 'I'll pay you extra if you'll just get this over with as quickly as possible.' Do you guys like mani/pedis?


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Labyrinth and associated characters aren't mine._

AN—We love? We like? We don't like? We hate? Lemme know…if you feel like it ;) I generally consider the work a success when people feel all those things simultaneously. It's like hitting an emotional jackpot.

 **A Devious Set Up II**

* * *

[…continuation] **A Spa Day Meant for Plotting**

" _I'm going to see how far I can push him," I say gleefully—completely oblivious to the fact that neither my grandmother nor my mother ask who I'm talking about._

My mother takes a sip of champagne and quirks a brow. "Care to tell us what you're blabbering about?"

I roll my eyes. "No."

"Perhaps your mother can help," Mimi interjects obligingly. "She's far better at games than you, Sarah dear."

I raise my brows _._ That's true, I guess _._

"A very… _persistent_ …man invaded my space yesterday—to prove some stupid point," I pause—that is _one_ way of putting it. "I want to make him regret it."

Most mothers would tell their grown ass daughters to stop acting like childish lunatics, but not _my_ mother. She looks proud, instead.

"What was the point he wanted to prove?" she asks, tone nonchalant—but I can tell she's itching to find out more details.

 _That he can make me ignore my inhibitions. That he can make me spread my legs on the conference table at work, while he fucks me with his skilled mouth and fingers._

A furious blush spreads across my face. "Let's not get into that."

Mommie dearest doesn't let up. "Come on, darling. The _point_ is the key to paying him back. You'll have to give me _something_."

"He knows that I'm fixated on him, okay?" I say, glaring at no one in particular. I hate admitting any weaknesses, and that's what he is. "He knows that he can pop into my life anytime he wants, and I'll welcome him with open arms."

 _Or open legs—definitely, open legs._

"That's pretty easy, Sarah," my mom says with a tsk, as if she's disappointed in my disability to strategize a half way decent revenge tactic. "Ignore him, treat him insignificantly, and let him see that you have enough man candy that you don't really need him around."

 _Man candy_? I can't help but guffaw at that.

"Seriously, mom? That sounds like something a seventh grade cheer leader would tell her friend." I laugh long and hard. "I'm not in middle school."

And I highly doubt that he'll give a damn, considering he'd never sought me out before yesterday—the thought makes my heart clench a little.

"My sweet, naive daughter," my mother says with a shake of her head. "If he thinks he's special, that you're fixated _only_ on him—then _trust_ me, it'll work."

"Hmmm," I say noncommittally. It's not like I have a better plan brewing in my head—guess I'll have to go with hers.

 _Great._

My initial, gleeful resolve wanes quickly when I realize that I'm going to have to fight the Goblin King…using a seventh grade cheer leader's revenge strategy.

Fuck my life.

* * *

 **Corner Table = Optimal Seating for an Exhibitionist**

I check my watch, brows furrowing in annoyance. My carefully chosen _man candy_ is late, dammit. Looking around the restaurant, I suddenly feel like a colossal moron.

 _What brand of temporary insanity had made me think my mother's advice was a good idea?_

Not that said man candy I'd chosen is unappealing—quite the opposite in fact. I'd dated him on and off in the past—it's always worked out well between us because neither one of us is the 'long-term' type.

Just as I contemplate ordering a glass of wine while I wait, I hear an all too familiar chuckle.

 _My mom's crackpot advice worked?!_

I look up to see the Goblin King dressed in a slim fitting suit, and slicked back hair. His eyes are the same—one pupil abnormally dilated—the only asymmetry on his ridiculously perfect face.

"All alone, _are you_?" His tone frames the question as a vague threat. "Mind if I sit down?"

"I'm waiting for someone. And, _yes_ , I mind," I reply brusquely…

…but the bastard sits down anyway. Instead of sitting across the table, he pulls up his chair close to mine—close enough that I can feel the low hum of his magic.

I keep myself from squirming as he studies me with a heated gaze—a knowing twist on his thin lips. "You look delectable, _Sarah dearest_."

I roll my eyes. My mom had chosen my outfit—a lightly embroidered, black cocktail dress that falls mid-thigh. The neckline is slightly lower than I'm used to—but only slightly—paired with a rather ridiculous looking pair of shoes. She'd insisted I wear her spikey, studded Louboutins—four and a half inch heels, and metal spikes sticking out in every direction. The damned things could be used as murder weapons. Very expensive murder weapons—but murder weapons nonetheless.

"Like I said, I'm waiting for someone," I say, indirectly pointing out that he isn't the only fixation in my life. "Hence the outfit." I add for good measure.

The Goblin King in human clothing smirks coolly. "And here I thought you'd put in all this… _effort_ …to catch my attention. Silly me."

A low flush creeps up my neck. Come to think of it, I _had_ put in all this effort solely for his benefit. How embarrassing. "I guess no one can accuse you of having low self-worth."

"No," he rumbles with a wolfish grin—causing an audible gasp from nearby serving staff. Guess his human disguise only went so far.

"I'm here on a date, Jareth—it'd be very difficult for me to explain your kingly presence. So…" I raise my brows, indicating that he get the hell out.

He raises a laconic brow in response. "So…?"

"So you should leave."

He laughs, the sound low and growly in his throat. "You're dressed in this…" his eyes sweep over my body, "…attire for your dinner date."

"Yes," I reply curtly—a tad bit more confrontational than I want to appear. _Tone it down, Williams_! "That's normally how dates work. What do you want?"

His eyes darken, and shadows bounce off his sharp features. "It seems you didn't listen to me yesterday, precious thing. I want to give you… _everything_ …until you beg me to stop…" his smile is razor sharp as my mouth falls open, "…but I won't stop."

 _Breathe. Just fucking breathe, dammit._

I clear my throat. "We're in a restaurant full of people."

The razor sharp smile remains on his face as his eyes travel down my face…down my neck…and settle on my chest as it rises and falls, indicative of my racing pulse. His arresting gaze lingers for a few seconds before finding my eyes.

"You believe that will stop me?"

 _Fuck_.

…and that's when I notice we're seated in a corner table, away from most prying eyes. The lighting makes it so that the table has adequate privacy.

 _Double fuck_.

 _This is what I get for listening to my mother's crackpot advice._

It seems like I've managed to procure his attention alright—and it's turning out _not_ to be such a good thing. Quite the opposite in fact. The low hum of his magic intensifies, and I feel it beat vibrantly against the sensitive skin of my breasts. Not entirely arousing… _yet_ …it makes me hyper aware of his presence.

"Go away," I hiss. "And stop touching me with your magic."

A full throated laugh and a flash of cruelty. "Would you rather I touch you with something else?"

I groan— _you set yourself up for that one, idiot._

"Seriously. My date's going to be here any— _oh_ " I stop speaking as his magic intensifies even more. My nipples stand erect, scraping against the material of my dress—it's one of those dresses with a built in bra, so the material is stiff, scratchy. A jolt of pleasure makes its way from my nipples to my clit.

 _Triple fuck_.

Straining my neck, I look around—making sure that no one in the restaurant noticed me.

He tilts his head, pale, icy eyes glinting with amusement. "Don't lie to me, _Sarah dearest_ ," he croons—there's a musical lilt to his voice—but it's also heavy with emotion. "You sought my attention. You served yourself for my taking…like a feast to be consumed."

 _Wait…what_? Served myself for his taking? Feast? What is he, a cannibal? Though, I suppose, with those teeth—who knows?

"Give me a fucking break," I hiss back, biting back a moan as his magic whirrs along my thighs. "I haven't served myself to you, in _any_ way."

A harsh sigh. "No?" The teasing lilt disappears from his voice, and he is all ice. Fortunately, the buzzing hum of his magic dies down, as his anger rises. "For your date, then?"

I frown—"What kind of fucked up, caveman logic is that? I'm not _serving myself_ to anyone, Goblin King—I've dressed up for _myself_. Soy. Moi. Watashi."

 _Which would have been true in most cases, but today, it's a blatant lie…and the smug bastard probably knows it._

He laughs—a chilling sound. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, my sweet. Perhaps you'll think twice before lying to me again…but then again, perhaps you'll find my lesson a bit too pleasurable for your own good."

Before I can ask what the fuck he means, I feel an ungloved hand caress the exposed skin of my thigh. I yelp at the contact. His hand _exudes_ some kind of energy—his magic. Resisting the urge to lean back on my chair and let the bastard have his way with me, I force my eyes open to glare at him.

"Stop…" my breath comes out hot and labored as his fingers inch up my thigh. "Jareth… _please_."

 _The hell is he going to do anyway? Go down on me as if I'm a feast for his taking?_

My face burns a bright shade of crimson at the vivid mental imagery the thought conjures. I clamp my thighs shut as a painful wave of desire floods my core.

"I'll stop if you wish," he promises with a dark chuckle—his fingers find their way under my dress and curl against an upper thigh. "Once you admit the truth, _Sarah dearest_."

When he doesn't receive a response, his fingers slide against the soaked flesh of my center—a blaze of lust lights up his cold eyes when he realizes I'm not wearing any underwear.

Poorly disguising a moan as a cough, I grin at him—happy to have surprised his royal pain in the ass. _For once_.

"Something wrong, Jareth?"

"You surprise me at every turn," he admits—eyes intent on mine as his fingers find my pulsing clitoris. "Allow me to do the same."

With those words, he strokes my clit in tight circles as his magic buzzes against my entrance—his lips latch onto the exposed skin of my shoulder, and he growls softly. "You're mine, _Sarah dearest_ —you have been since the day you called on me. Mine to touch…mine to fuck…even if it's in a restaurant full of people."

I praise my lucky stars that I'm able to keep my breathing steady as he tortures me into a shuddering orgasm. His hand under my dress is hidden by the table—to the other patrons, we probably look like a touchy, feely couple who'd tucked themselves away in a hidden corner. Probably why none of the serving staff had approached us thus far.

 _Still_ —the fact that he's fucking me in a public place makes me hot and cold at the same time. Worst of all…or perhaps, _best_ of all…he doesn't stop once I come. His fingers continue their sweet torture, slowly building up my pleasure again. This time, he's achingly slow, and the buzz of his magic isn't enough. I need him inside me.

"Okay, fine," I whimper—I can't tell whether I'm begging him to stop or begging him to _never_ stop. "I admit it. I dressed up for you—served myself for you, or whatever, like you said."

He doesn't relent even after I tell him the truth. "I don't care that you're here on a _date_ ," he spits out the word. "That you wore this dress without any undergarments, for your date."

I moan softly as the pressure builds—lust flows through my veins, uncontained.

"…I don't even care if he takes you to his bed and fucks you until you cannot move."

Biting my lip, I force myself to keep from gasping aloud at his words. His voice—a mix of derision and lust, does something inexplicable to me.

"I only care that you think of me, _Sarah dearest_. When he pushes you open and enters you…compare him to _me_. When your cunt clenches him as you come on his cock…scream out _my_ name." The buzzing at my entrance intensifies—his finger presses down forcefully on my clit as he speaks.

…and I'm pushed over the edge.

I come _hard_

Throwing my head back, my lips part open in a soundless scream. In a fucking restaurant. In the middle of Manhattan. The thought makes me scramble in frenzied panic.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

I just had a mind numbing orgasm in public.

"Are you insane?" I whisper harshly.

A sharp toothed smile. "I believe I answered your question the last time we met." He stands up and dusts imaginary lint off of his suit jacket.

"You're leaving?" I blurt out—eyes wide.

Leaning down, he places a chaste kiss on my cheek. "Think of me… _if_ you fuck him tonight, precious." That's all he says before turning around and walking out of the restaurant as I gape at his retreating form.

I signal a waiter once he's out of sight, and order a glass of ice water.

* * *

 **Maternal Instinct**

"Mimi…I don't think I can do the date thing tomorrow night," I say—the last thing I need is Jareth showing up at my grandmother's house and fucking with me again. "The man from my past is insanely persistent and I don't want to risk anything."

That's true enough—Mimi's probably set me up with a friend's grandson—who'll probably be a nice guy with a nice house somewhere in Long Island or Connecticut. He'd be the type of nice guy who'd agreed to the date out of pity. Who else would date a loser who had to be fixed up by her grandmother?

But that's not the point. The point is—Jareth would eat him alive. Not like how he'd eat _me_ alive, but in another manner altogether.

"Oh hush," my grandmother scolds. "No backsies, Sarah. When you make a promise to your almost dead grandmother, you keep it!"

 _Ooh—she's bringing out the big guns._

"I'm saying it for his sake, Mimi," I argue with a groan. I doubt I can make her change her mind—freaking stubborn old woman that she is. _Still_ , it's worth a try.

Mimi snorts at the other end. "What's this man from your past going to do? Come to my house in Long Island, and brawl with your date? As you say, dear granddaughter—who has _that_ kind of time in Manhattan?"

 _Well…she has a point._

"Fine," I relent. Maybe this time, the Goblin King _wouldn't_ appear in my grandmother's house and devour me on her dining table.

I decide to call my mother next.

"Hey mom," I say as she picks up. "I need some help with the guy I was telling you about."

"Fire away, darling."

I roll my eyes—she'd insisted on calling me darling ever since I was a child. It's very old Hollywood—and weirdly, very Joan Crawford. It's also one of those things that used to annoy the hell out of my dad.

"I don't think he's going to let it go…but he's not making any moves either."

My mother laughs. "It isn't about _him_ , darling. What do _you_ want?"

Hmm. Good question. What _do_ I want?

"I want him to fuck me until I can't move." The words, _his_ words from last night, are out of my mouth before I realize it.

My mother howls with laughter as I sputter some apologetic nonsense, utterly horrified. "Pretend you never heard that."

"Relax, darling. You're still tame in my book," she soothes. "Perhaps you should go after what you want, Sarah—what do you have to lose?"

"My freedom…?" I ponder aloud.

This catches her interest. "Your freedom? What is he, a medieval warlord?"

"Well…no…but it's complicated."

"Look, kiddo," my mom says with a sigh. "You know my motto in life is 'don't knock it, till you tried it.' And that's what you should do…even if it is just to get him out of your system."

Guess that makes sense. "Alright—thanks for listening. Is Mimi still visiting you this weekend?"

"Oh yes. She's hell bent on leaving that house unoccupied for you."

And it's official—I come from a family of weirdos.

"Think she can manage the six hour flight?"

"She's tougher than she looks, darling," my mother replies. "Don't worry about her."

* * *

 **My…What Big Teeth**

I give my Uber driver a tip, one hand smoothing my dress, as I step out of the cab. Frowning, I consider the vibrant, crimson shade of my dress—it's a little too much for a first date. But then again, this dress isn't for him.

Jareth hadn't shown up last night—leaving me alone with my thoughts…

…and my raging hormones.

Whoever said women hit their sexual peak in their 30s, had it correct. I spent the last few nights tossing and turning, hoping the bastard would appear out of thin air and live up to his undeclared promises.

"Hello…" I call out as I enter the house. She'd said she'd cater dinner and call in some cleaning staff—yet there are no cars parked outside. I walk into her kitchen to find it empty, along with the rest of the ground floor.

 _Weird_.

Just as I'm about to call her and ask her what happened, I hear a rustle of fabric right behind me—I jump out of my skin.

"Don't be alarmed, silly girl." His voice is deep and soft, bereft of its usual mocking edge. "It's only me."

I whirl around to give him a piece of my mind, but my voice dies as I take in his presence. The Goblin King cuts a forbidding figure—dressed in midnight leather, and a cloak made of smoke and ashes. There's a crown of thorns and berries on his head, and he seems far… _sharper_ …than I remember. The markings around his eyes look different, more ancient—and the lines on his face more somber.

"You shouldn't be here," I say shakily, taking an instinctive step back. There's something different about him this time—and I'm not stupid enough to engage him like I had done before.

He narrows his eyes—gaze predatory—as if he's studying my every move. As if he's letting me get away—giving me the illusion of safety until he wishes otherwise.

"Don't run from me, Sarah," he rumbles. "I would enjoy chasing you more than I care to admit."

"Chasing me…down?" I ask dumbly.

 _Breathe, Williams, Breathe._

His lips twist into a cruel sneer. "Yes, _Sarah dearest_ ," he tilts his head as he gauges my reaction, "…I have several fantasies involving you running from me…"

I gape at him. "And that's not freaky at all." My brain rages at me— _run, you idiot, run_.

"…and I chase you down in every one of them," he finishes, as if I hadn't spoken at all.

My brain shuts up at that— _alright, Williams, time to accept that you're fucked six ways to Sunday_.

I have to swallow twice to find my voice. "My grandmother said she called in a caterer and a cleaning lady…where are they?"

"I sent them away—we have no use for them, do we?" He bares his teeth in wicked grin. "Unless, of course, you wish to have an audience."

The sight of his spiky teeth elicits a gasp. My…what big teeth he has.

"Mimi set up a date for me," I mumble—not caring that I sound stupid.

The Goblin King gives me a long, hard look and raises a critical brow. "Come now, _Sarah dearest_ , you're not obtuse. You did solve my Labyrinth after all."

 _Hold the fucking phone!_

"You?" I spit out, shock overtaking my fear. " _You're_ the date she set up."

He has the gall to laugh at me. "Not _me_ , exactly. A more… _human_ …form of me, I suppose. I promised her I'd put up with all your…stubborn ways."

…and that's when I feel rage. Pure, unadulterated rage at how easily he manipulated my grandmother.

"If you've hurt her in any way, Jareth, I'll fucking make you sorry."

"I don't wish to hurt your elderly grandmother, precious thing," he replies evenly, his face as impeccable as his tone. " _Not yet_ , in any case."

 _That about does it._

My temper reaches epic proportions, and I see red. Stomping my way to him, I shove him on the chest, _hard_. The brief look of surprise on his cold face, gives me all the ammo I need.

"How fucking _dare_ you mess with my grandmother," I bark, anger taking away any remnant of rationality I possessed. "Whatever issues we have is between you and me, Goblin King—how dare you threaten her?!"

He doesn't speak for a few seconds, but when he does his tone is absolutely neutral. "Shall we resolve these issues that you speak of?"

"Fine," I reply. "As long as it's for once and for all."

The Goblin King stands perfectly still. "Are you sure, precious thing?"

I grit my teeth and answer him before I lose my resolve. "Perfectly. Address your problems with me, Goblin King—this is your once chance."

"I ask you once more, _Sarah dearest_ —"

"Get the fuck on with it," I interrupt him mid-sentence. Annoyed at having to reaffirm the same thing three times.

…and _that's_ when I realize my mistake.

But it's too late. The Goblin King's frightening smile is the last thing I see before my world goes dark.

* * *

 **A Feast for the Taking**

 _Where am I?_

 _Where is he?_

 _Who are all these people?_

My thoughts are jumbled as I gain consciousness, and I find myself in the middle of a party. Of sorts anyway. I seem to be dressed in a form fitting gown, that's the same shade of jade as my eyes. The plunging neckline and obscene slit render the dress very different from the poofy marshmallow ball gown I'd worn the last time when I attended one of his parties.

So _this_ is his major issue? _The ballroom_? Figures.

I make my way through the throng of masked dancers, searching for him, just as I had done as a child. But I don't find him right away…it feels like I've been walking in circles for hours when I finally see him. He wears the same outfit, save for the crown of thorns and billowing cloak. Seated on a giant throne made of crystal, he's nestled between two very friendly women.

Very, _very_ friendly women.

One seems to be caressing the exposed skin on his chest, while the other…her hand seems to be… _wowza_. My face turns all shades of red as I look away and back into his eyes. I make my way to him, clenching my fists as I draw closer.

"So you want me to watch you fuck your friends?" I ask, unable to keep incredulity out of my voice. "How the hell is that going to resolve our issues?" Never mind that I have no idea what these issues are.

He inclines his head languidly as he eyes me with amused disinterest. He waits a few moments before dismissing both women with a nod of his head. "Now, now, _Sarah dearest_ —don't be so rude to our guests."

"Our guests?" I repeat.

He gestures to the space next to him. "Come, sit."

"I am not your pet," I spit out, suddenly furious. "I'm not sitting next to you and putting my hands down your pants—or whatever it is that your friend was doing."

He laughs—cold, hard eyes softening a little. "I got bored waiting for you, precious thing…and I must admit, I wanted to see if I could make you jealous."

I try keeping my anger in check. "Can we finish this quickly?" I say, keeping my tone detached. "I've got places to go and people to meet. Hurry up with this… twisted revisit."

" _Quickly_ , she says," he lilts, eyes gleaming with mirth. "How shall we start?"

 _Dear fucking God. This has gone on long enough._

"You can start by telling me what you want from me—what you _truly_ want from me," I demand.

His laughter comes out harsher this time—harsh enough that some of the entranced dancers stop and stare at us. "I've never hidden the truth from you, precious thing. I wish to give you _everything_."

I growl at him—actually growl in frustration. The bastard is never going to be direct and I am sick of his riddles.

"If you want to fuck me, Jareth—go ahead and do it," I say, walking up the steps that lead to his throne and sitting next to him. "Don't give me some bullshit response that you want to give me everything."

A look of utter satisfaction crosses his face before he pounces. He places me on his lap—one gloved hand entwines itself in my hair, and another grasps my chin, so that I'm looking into his eyes. I cry out in pain as he pulls down on my hair.

 _Fucking bastard—that hurts!_

"You've forgotten a valuable lesson, my sweet. Words have power in my realm," he rumbles, eyes boring into mine. Letting go of my chin, he trails a leather clad finger down my neckline, raising goosebumps along my flesh. "…and you, _Sarah dearest_ , let's just say that you've rendered yourself powerless."

I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but stop when he shakes his head.

"Shhh," he whispers. An unnamed emotion flickers in his eyes as he holds my gaze before lowering his mouth over mine, in a slow, erotic kiss. His tongue strokes against mine in a slow, languid caress.

I moan, relaxing into his touch as he loosens his grip on my hair. His other hand encloses over a breast—my nipple hardens at the touch. I can see some of the dancers staring us from the corners of my eyes, but most don't seem to care as the music grows louder with each passing second.

"Precious thing," he whispers, voice hard with desire, breath hot against my ear. "You must let me know now…if you wish for me to stop." His lips glide down the column of my neck and he kisses the hollow between my collar bones—one hand pulls down a flimsy sleeve, exposing my breast.

 _Is he kidding me? I wouldn't ask him to stop if the world was on the brink of a nuclear war._

"Don't stop," I say, surprised that I can speak at all. I run my fingers along the lines of his chest, and rest my palm against his beating heart.

Frustratingly enough, he does exactly that—he stops.

Letting go of my breast, he clasps my hand against his heart and stares at me with dark, hooded eyes. The air around us shifts—I feel the familiar hum of his magic surround me as he transports us…

…to an empty room that's open to the night sky.

"Come," he says, his voice a low growl, as he leads me to the bed—it's the only piece of furniture in the entire place. He lifts me up with his arms and pushes me down on the mattress, before covering my body with his—his movements are too rough to be considered gentle. One hard leg slips between mine and pushes them apart.

 _Get your act together, Williams_ —my mind rages.

I want to render him equally powerless. I want to show him that I'm not some idiotic virgin who just lies there and takes it. Yet…I can't help but throw my head back and moan when his mouth covers my breast—the tip of his tongue encircles my nipple until I gasp.

He looks at me with gleaming eyes, holding my gaze for a few, torturous seconds…and then he sucks. His lips latch onto my nipple and he suckles my flesh hungrily before moving to my other breast, and down my body.

"What are you doing to me?" I murmur, half delirious with need as his tongue dips into my naval.

"What I've wished to do for a very long time, precious," he says, mouth hovering dangerously close to clit. Saying that, he enters me with his fingers, and strokes me in a languid pace.

My breathing quickens—I want to close my eyes and surrender to his maddening touch, but I can't look away from his piercing gaze.

 _He has me mesmerized._

"Jareth," I plead as he teases me leisurely, building my pleasure inch by inch until it reaches an unbearable limit.

"What do you want, Sarah?" He asks—the growl in his voice harsher than before—as if his control is hanging by a thread.

I cry out as he touches a spot deep within me.

 _Fuck_. That feels…

I cry out again as he rubs me there until I feel like I'm going to explode. The muscles in my thighs coil tightly, my abdomen tenses. But just as I teeter on the edge, his fingers stop moving.

"What do you want?"

 _What—is he fucking kidding me?_

"You," I choke out—ready to sob. "Fuck me, _please_."

He grins—teeth bare, gleaming against the pale moonlight. He moves, dragging his mouth against my heated flesh—with just the right amount of pressure that I can feel his teeth scrape against my skin.

 _Oh, fuck. He's going to…_

"No," I plead, my hand on his bare shoulder—I'd been so enraptured in my own pleasure, that I hadn't noticed that he'd vanished our clothes into the ether. "Enough games, Jareth. I need you inside me."

He looks like he's fighting an internal battle…

…one that he loses, as he settles himself between my legs, a low growl emanating from his throat. His eyes are so dark that they look black. His teeth are bare—there's a translucent glow to his skin that makes him look distinctly inhuman.

Just as I'm ready to beg him to fuck me, he enters me with one hard thrust.

"Fuck. Holy fucking—mmmmph," my words come out smothered when his mouth crashes into mine. His kiss isn't slow or erotic this time. It's _brutal_ —he drives his tongue into my mouth, and his sharp teeth bite into my lips until I can taste the sweet, coppery essence of blood. The twinge of pain unleashes a flood of desire, and I clench him that much harder.

Jareth buries his face into my neck as my muscles clench around him. He whispers harshly into my ear as he thrusts harder and deeper into me. "You're mine, precious thing. If you run from me again, I shall hunt you down to the ends of the earth."

Somewhere in my mind, I know I should fear the dark promise and threat his words convey—but I'm too delirious. I can feel him grow bigger inside me—touching all my pleasure points at once. With every thrust, he goes deeper into me, and I feel a different kind of pressure build in my core. One that borders on pleasure and pain.

… _and I love it. Crave it, even._

"Harder," I moan, pushing against him—fighting for dominance.

His breaths come out strangled, and sweat drips down his chest as he fucks me roughly. "There is no escaping me, Sarah—not this time." Saying that, he reaches between us and presses down on my clit.

… _and my world explodes._

My orgasm rips through me with an intensity that saturates every cell in my body. I feel like I'm floating on a cloud of white hot pleasure. And yet, I can feel my muscles clench and release with a force I've never experienced before.

Jareth's thrusts become harsher, and harsher as my muscles clench and release his cock. He keeps driving into me, until he roars out his release—his body goes slack as he empties himself within me in hot spurts.

After a few moments, he rolls off of me, and lies flat on his back—chest rising and falling with sheer exhilaration. "Living up to your expectations has been exhausting, precious thing," he murmurs.

I laugh—voice heavy, and throat raw. "…but you already knew that about me, Jareth."

The next morning, I awaken to find myself on a massive bed, situated in a strange but elegant room. The furnishings waver between baroque and minimal—the walls are made of stone and slate. Memories of the previous night flash through my mind, and I blush when I realize I don't have any clothes to wear. I grab the blanket and turn it into a make shift wrap.

I explore the place, until I find Jareth lounging in a corner couch—his face is back in its impeccable mask, but his eyes are alight with humor. "You're awake."

"Um…yeah," I respond awkwardly. 34-years-old, and the 'walk of shame' is still as awkward as ever. "I…uh…thought you could send me back."

An amused laugh. "No."

 _No? Did he say no?_

"What do you mean, no?"

"This may be difficult for you to follow, so pay attention _, Sarah dearest_ ," he says, tone as sharp as the look in his eyes. "When your grandmother agreed to let me court you, she set certain events into motion that cannot be undone. And when you agreed to…resolve our issues, _thrice over_ , I took the opportunity to…" he looks lost in thought for a few moments, "…in essence, make you my bride."

 _Bride? Bride?! Did he say bride? A mother-fucking bride?_

I simply stand there like an idiot, with my mouth open, as he laughs at my expression.

"Don't look so surprised, precious thing—you attended our wedding. You sat on my throne, or _our_ throne from now, I suppose, and agreed to let me give you _everything_. In the grand scheme of things, you probably weren't aware of what that entailed, so allow me to provide an explanation. I give you my kingdom, my power, and my immortality. My words remain true, _Sarah dearest_ —I've given you everything, and you've taken it all."

My brain stays functional for a few seconds, solely to laugh at me— _yep, Williams, fucked six ways to Sunday_. And then my vision fades as I faint into the Goblin King's arms.

* * *

 **Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes**

"This is all your fault," I tell my mother over the phone—my grandmother sniggers in the background. Don't ask me how phones work in a magical dimension—apparently, because of magic. "If you hadn't given me your insane advice, I wouldn't be in this awful position."

Mommie dearest, as usual, brushes off my concerns. "What do you mean by this _awful_ position, Sarah darling?"

"Soon to be out of a job. Married. To him. What next? Knocked up? Toothless? Going by the lack of dentists in the Underground, toothless is certainly a possibility."

"Don't be absurdly dramatic. Did it occur to you that perhaps you're _meant_ to be married to this…you say he isn't human? What is he?"

Problem 230948 of having a whimsical parent—tell her your husband isn't human and she takes it in stride.

"I have no idea what he is, but never mind that. Should I remind you that _you_ were married, Mommie dearest? And you ran screaming, three years later? Leaving a one-year-old infant behind?"

"Don't be silly," my mother rationalizes. "I was married to your father—we were never meant to be together in the long run. _You're_ different."

"I agree—I need to live in the real world. How the hell am I going to do that with the Goblin King for a husband?"

I can visualize my mother shrug as she says this, "Don't you tell all those unfortunate companies you downsize, to embrace change? Perhaps you should do the same."

I swipe the red button, hanging up on my mom. I have nothing to add to _that_. Being on the receiving end of the 'embrace change' speech is disconcerting, to say the least. Karma is a bitch I suppose—not that mine's _too much_ of a bitch. _Downsize_ isn't the word I'd use to describe Jareth—the well-endowed devil that he is.

Speaking of the devil, he chuckles, as if he can hear my thoughts and envelopes me in his arms. "Come back to bed, Sarah." His breath is hot, and his tone promises something extreme—something raw. And from what I've experienced in the last few days, I know he can deliver both. And then some.

Leaning against his hard frame, I close my eyes. "I need to leave at some point, you know."

A low growl. "Allow me to convince you otherwise, _Sarah dearest_."

Fin.

* * *

 **And there we have it.** I wanted to take on a trope I don't like – went with a slightly more prudish Sarah (compared to her mother and grandmother, anyway haha).

Sarah's work? Yeah, she's no Mother Theresa. I generally make her a consultant of some sort or another—she's in business transformations here. Might be a bit hard hitting for people directly impacted by close downs and outsourcing, but it's such a high adrenaline, kick ass job.

In my last AN, I'd written about how idiotic NA authors are about describing 'businesses.' Well…yesterday, I saw a very, very weird song and dance show about bonds and liquid funds. A song and dance show. A fucking song and dance show. It was a 'what in the actual fuck—is everyone on acid' moment that no amount of 'cultural differences' can explain. NA authors have competition.

I also had to keep myself from giggling every time someone said 'market penetration' and 'we must go deeper' – lmao – b/c I have the maturity of a 14 year old. 'We must push for deeper market penetration.' Bahahahaha.

I received a lovely statement via PM—thought I'd address it. Lemme paraphrase:

 **Your stories would be so much better if you wrote tasteful sex scenes. You ruin the romance.**

 _Ruin the romance? Moi?_ *Cheshire Cat grin*

I write the kind of sex I like. Slightly rough. Slightly unpredictable. Slightly unconventional. Slightly vulgar. And I say 'slightly' because I don't think anything I write (or _do_ for that matter, lol) is remotely extreme.

The kind of people who like writing/reading 'tasteful' sex? I assume, are boring as fuck in the sack. Live a little on the edge, folks.

 **As for romance—what do you guys find romantic?**

In RL (and my writing, I suppose) I find spikes of emotional intensity far more romantic than 'nice' monotony. I've seen couples live such boring lives—like you see them at restaurants and they barely have anything to say to each other – other than 'how was your day?' 'Oh, that's nice.' 'Let's watch cat videos on YouTube together.'

How do people live like that?

I need to feel, I need to rage, I need to be turned inside out. I need to feel my heartbeat rise to 190+. I need to feel elated. And I need to tear things apart. What's the point of being alive otherwise?

My H and I were having this convo where he was all 'do you think we'll ever stop arguing and fighting?' I was all 'fuck, no. I've seen couples who don't fight and they may as well be statues.' He thinks I'm crazy, spoiled, and psychotically persistent about certain things, and I think he's an overbearing, arrogant, know-it-all ass, so...

Now…young peeps…there are ppl out there who'll try to convince you that being with someone for years and years and watching cat videos together for years and years, while having quiet dinners at restaurants where nobody say anything—and having 'tasteful' sex once every three months—is _actually_ HEA and true love blah blah blah.

 **My take?** It might be true love…but it sure as hell ain't HEA. It's 'fucking shoot me in the head if my life ever turns out like that' ever after. Not the kind of relationship I want and/or not the kind of relationship I will _ever_ idealize in my writing.

Some serious life advice here: don't be that couple in the restaurant with nothing to say to each other.


End file.
